


There is a Part I Can't Tell

by Beauty of Wilting (youngerdrgrey)



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-05-15
Updated: 2010-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngerdrgrey/pseuds/Beauty%20of%20Wilting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, the best stories aren't really stories at all; they're just bits and pieces that all seem to fall into place. Quinn/Will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Second person, Quinn is "you"

The whole thing feels very 90s television. Still, you grin and pretend like you aren't watching him sing to her.

" _Baby, let me be, your loving teddy bear. Put a chain around my neck, and lead me anywhere. Oh let me be, your teddy bear. I don't want to be your tiger, 'cause tiger's play too rough. Don't want to be your lion, 'cause lion's ain't the kind you love enough. Oh let me be, oh let me be, your teddy bear."_

Will turns from your daughter, catching gaze with you. You step up to him and wrap your arms around him.

"It'll be years before she can do this," you say, "But when she gets to, I doubt you'll ever need to ask her to hold onto you. No one would ever want to let you go."

He puts himself into the hug.

The two of you stay this way for a while, just holding each other and breathing. Hugs like this make things seem so simple. Everything feels like it amounts to nothing. What is there outside of these arms? What is there not in this hold? What is there that could possibly matter more?

"You really shouldn't say things like that, Quinn," he says. Something stings inside as once again he says what you've heard too many times.

"I-"

"Do you know how hard it is for me? Do you have any idea how hard it is to live with you, to be near you, to see you, and hold you, and not do anything?"

You almost expect him to pull away. Yet, he stays tight against you, talking into the air above your head.

"Quinn, they call me a man-whore, with good reason as I've shown. Everyone knows that I am horrible with relationships. I've really only had one, and we all know how that turned out. I can't do this. I can't ruin this."

"You won't," you tell him.

"I will. It's in my nature. You can't keep saying these amazingly sincere things to me. You can't walk around in those short outfits. You can't crawl into my bed just because you had a bad dream. I can't be with you, Quinn. I just can't."

He has tears in his eyes; you can hear them in his voice. Strained yet determined, his speech wavers. These are the times where you remember old sayings about actions and words. Your mother used to get you to do nice things instead of just saying it because the things you did were supposed to mean more. This led to charity, and church choir, and spending obnoxiously long amounts of time with your grandparents. Now, the thought leads to something that matters more to you.

Slowly, you scoot up. Your gazes intertwine as you slide to his face. You start in, and your lips meet.

It's soft. Simple. Sad.

He sniffles. Cold drops hit your skin. You pull away.

"I forgive you," you tell him, "I love you. And, I forgive you. I need you. And, I forgive you."

He goes to step back, but you hold on tighter.

"Let me go," he says. He doesn't even sound like he believes himself anymore. He's weak, grasping for what he can.

"I can't," you say. When he tries again to move, you say it again. "I can't!"

It echoes through the room. The lingering pain could be considered the aftermath of an action. Aftermath of the one action that Will decided to take that put you guys on an even more complicated path.

Your life is not a 90s television show. He is not Uncle Jesse, your daughter is not Michelle, and you will never be Becky. Instead, you are just one of the many girls who fell for the guy with the good hair but never got to keep him. You don't get to marry him, or live with the family, or go to Disney World, or have his kids. All you get are sad memories of kisses that really shouldn't have happened.

He disentangles your bodies and moves away. He crosses to Beth and brushes a finger through her hair.

"You made her. You and Puck, of all people, created the most beautiful girl in the world. You don't need me," he tells you, "And that's how it should be. I think it'd be best if you started looking for a place."

Maybe your mom didn't lie all those years ago; maybe your teddy bear really can run away from you. Or better yet, it can remain in the spot you find too painful to recall.

The bedroom door closes behind you. It's ominous. Objective. Over.


	2. Chapter 2

For young girls in Lima, Ohio, the coolest thing used to be baby dolls. Every girl craved the tiny infants that were forever frozen in time. Brittany used to tell anyone who would listen what 'extraordinary things Missy did' that day. Santana would put hers in the baby swing at the park and push until her arms grew too tired to go on. But both girls dropped everything when they heard about whatever doll you were playing with.

They all wanted to be you. Hands down, no contest, Quinn Fabray was always the golden girl of Lima. Quinn Fabray would be someone. After all, Quinn Fabray is a legend. Quinn Fabray is the head of one of the foremost cheerleading squads in the nation. Quinn Fabray dates the hottest, most delectable guy to walk the halls of McKinley High since 1994. But you are not that girl. Anyone looking at you would easily tell you the same. How could the girl who eats lunch in the choir room (alone and with a bag lunch at that) be the same girl? It's like you're one of those sad  _16 & Pregnant_ moms that all the other teens laugh at. Maybe running away to MTV would be a nice idea. You've screwed up enough to be great television.

"Quinn?" asks a voice.

"Quinn's not available at the moment. You could leave a message and her sorry pregnant twin will make sure to pass it along when she returns in three to four months."

As enthusiastic as everything about him comes the laugh of Mr. Schue. He obviously missed the underlying defeat in your tone.

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

"I needed to think. I figured the music of the room could help," you say.

He nods along, mentioning, "Most people would just turn on their iPods."

Sadly, yours rests in the small guest room at Finn's house, secretly guarded by the ferocious beast you used to know as Ms. Hudson. Finn used to talk about how his mother gave these heart-wrenching, soul-devouring glares that would always make him want to curl up into a ball. They always sounded like the exaggeration of a guilty conscience. Maybe they still are. God knows you feel guilt every time she looks at you that way. Every time you move around her house, she watches and glares. Her stares are like the most disappointed look your parents ever gave you, only ten times worse.

A glint of brown brings you out of your thoughts in time to see the grin on Mr. Schue's face. Upon looking closer, you realize he seems to be watching you, and not in a creeper kind of way.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he tries.

It's dorky, but totally sweet. Kind of like Finn before everything happened. Life was easier then. Life still could be easy, if everyone could just accept the changes.

"Everyone's not like you, Mr. Schue. You're kind, and you don't look at me any different. You know I'm pregnant, know that I'm only sixteen and that my family completely hates me. Yet, you still look at me as if I were still… me."

"You are still you, Quinn."

"But I'm not. I'm this whole different person who has so much to think about and nothing to fall back on. I wasn't a person who backed down from anything, but if I needed to, I always had the Cheerios to blend in with and hide behind. I can't hide anymore."

"I'm sure you could if you tried," he says.

You glance down to where your hands rest. You laugh.

"Right because I'm just so inconspicuous right now. I can't do anything, ever. All I do is schoolwork. I wake up in the morning, get ready, go to school, leave school, go to Finn's, and sleep. I can't even sleep half the time because I have so much to think about. I have no options right now but to go on and try not to lose my mind. I'm up a creek without a paddle, a GPS, or a life vest. All I have is this baby, and that really isn't much to hold on to."

"Are you keeping her?"

No.

Yes.

"I don't know. I think I'm out of options. I only really had one."

His body stiffens when you mention it. His chest opens up and you can almost physically see his heart bleed. Right, this baby was going to be his.

He parts his lips, and his tongue traces the curves of them. Words unspoken wait to be released from their confines. He contemplates, and then he speaks.

"You always have options, Quinn. You could always put her up for adoption," he says, "There are agencies that handle these sorts of things."

"I kind of thought about just going to one of those safe zones and leaving her there for somebody to deal with," you say. Again, you can see the blood dripping down. It runs pretty consistently. If he keeps it up, it may even mirror yours.

"That isn't what you want to do," he says.

"How do you know what I want?"

"You don't want to throw her away."

Isn't it better her than your life?

"I don't want any of this. I can't do everything, Mr. Schue. I'm sixteen. I can barely drive myself around. I don't think I could handle all the agencies and the people, the couples all staring at me but only seeing what I have growing inside of me. And who would want her anyway? Who would want her other than me?"

Him.

"I have an idea," he says. The words stumble out so quickly that you wonder if he's fully thought them through. He has a wild look on his face, like he's scrambling for whatever he can get. Has he always been like this? Has he always worn all of his thoughts and emotions? Is this normal, or is it just talking about the baby that does it?

"Okay," you say.

He begins, "Think of it as a  _very_  open adoption, so open it's as if you barely even gave her away."

Is this going where you think it is?

"I'm not following you." Or at least, you hope you aren't.

"You will. Okay, just hear me out. When she's born, you have about three days minimum that are the typical bonding time things. You hold her; feed her, name her, and everything else. But when it's time to take her home, she comes back to my apartment. I will be the primary caregiver. I will supply for her, and for you. At any moment, you would be welcome to come over, and look after her, or play with her. If you would like, you could even take up residence in the extra room for some time to adjust and get used to the idea of being with her, to gauge what you would be willing to commit to. You could decide to easily walk away, and all of us could be fine and dandy. You have a future, a very bright one, ahead of you. This is not just for you though. It's for all three of us."

All three of you? No, that sounds too much like a happy family and not enough like the weird student-teacher relationship you two have.

He continues.

"You get to have that blossoming life, she gets to have a stable home, and I get the chance to be a father."

He breathes. You don't.

Doesn't he understand what he's saying? He's basically proposing that he raises your daughter with you. He's making the two of you parents. Turning one sin into another (like recycling. Go green!). He's like thirty-five. That's almost twenty years older than you. How does he convince himself this is okay in his mind? It's worse on his end. Loss of job, disgusted stares, possible jail time - but you two wouldn't have a relationship. It would just be a parental partnership. The bad stuff only happens if there's something more to it. There would not be anything more.

"You don't have to decide now," he rushes to say.

You want to respond with something along the lines of 'trust me, I wasn't going to.' The words die when you see that all of his talking has given a fairly solid option. To you, it's a way out. To him, it's a bandaid for that gaping hole in his chest. He could have the baby. He could genuinely have her. If Mr. Schue can handle New Directions and Sue Sylvester, he can take care of this one little girl.

He could be there at ballet recitals, or soccer matches. He could bandage her knee and kiss away the boo-boos, or get the monster out of her closet so that she can sleep. He'll be her dad…. Who will you be? What's your title in this weird relationship? And how far does your open pass to the house go?

"What if you have company, or you're busy, or something? What do I do?" you ask.

"Just like my classroom, my home is always open. I don't care if I'm talking to my grandmother, or in the middle of a shower; you can come over any time," he says.

Pictures flood your mind of that last idea. Crisp air bites in those early winter days. You left your jacket at home but you know he has an extra one for you in the coat closet. Your dress lightly flows at your knees, which you can see again because you're not a whale anymore. You wait and wait at the door, wondering if he maybe went out for a bit. Just when you consider turning away, the door opens. There he stands, still glistening with water. A bit of soap hangs on his neck and shoulder. Normally, his robe would rid him of this, but he was rushing and only had a towel. (A very small towel.) You reach out to wipe off the soap. Hand on his neck, closer than ever before, only a few inches forward and you could-

"Probably send me a text, or a call, before you get there, but other than that…"

The real Mr. Schue trails off. Your face warms, and you have to change the subject. Sadly, your brain just cannot go too far these days.

"I like the name Peyton," you say, "Peyton Aubrey Fabray… or whatever her last name is. I think it's pretty."

"It is."

A smile for the both of you. His ears look a little red around the edges. Trail away from them. Find his eyes. (They're brighter now.) Recognize the color and remember the days of baby dolls. You once had a doll with eyes that color; she was your favorite.

The lunch bell slices through the silence.

"I think that means I have to head to class now," you say.

"Alright. Oh, and can you pass along all of that to Quinn?" he asks.

"Can do, Mr. Schue."

You give a small wave and turn. The extra weight of pregnancy doesn't get you quite as far away from the door as he believes. Only a few steps out of the room, his voice carries out to you.

"Peyton Schuester," he whispers.

For teenage girls in Lima, Ohio, the coolest thing is having plans. Every girl wants that way to a life far away from this small town. Brittany sings her heart out as if everything were a solo. Santana studies to the point where her grades look like first grade homework (A's all across the page). But both girls would just die if they heard about your latest plan.


End file.
